At times my friends and I joked about dying young, but we never thought one of us actually would. Sure, we did stupid things, but death? We were smarter than that.
Questions flooded my mind. How had it ended this way? How had it gone so wrong? I struggled to piece together the details.
I was upset, certainly. Katy consoled me, and we drove to Sequoia Point where we drank some wine. We got buzzed but not totaled. The last thing I remembered was her frantic yelling, the car skidding then rolling then…nothing. Now we were here, my memory foggy, thoughts muddled and emotions strangely absent.
What, exactly, had happened?
Wordlessly, I left my parents and walked toward the casket. I took a deep breath, my legs inching me forward. It was the moment of truth. I stepped up to the raised black coffin and peered inside, recoiling in surprise.
Staring back at me was myself.
Afterword
A Special Message from Author to Reader
Note: There are spoilers in the Afterword, so I recommend reading the novel first, then coming back and reading my message to you.
Anna’s story parallels my own in many respects. As I was writing hers, I realized I also wanted to share my personal experiences with you—the reader—at the end. In part, because my portrayal of Anna’s wavering self-esteem, reckless choices and questionable behavior may seem over the top (meaning not based in reality), but I assure you it was very similar to what I experienced.
I can recall with a startling clarity the feelings, intentions, drama and unique perspective I had in my teens. It often cracked me up as the dialogue poured out as I wrote this book. More importantly, I share my story in hopes it will open up a conversation with women of all ages who may have experienced their own challenges and can relate. I had no one to talk to about these intense, often confusing feelings and wish I had. This book took on greater meaning knowing potential conversations could result, or that someone might feel less alone or unhappy just from reading it. If you’re inclined to share your experience, I invite you to contact me through my website, www.katherinecobb.com.
I entered high school with the same hopes, dreams and relative self-assuredness Anna had. A good student, I hadn’t done anything too outlandish or wrong outside of learning how to smoke a cigarette and briefly experiment (with great hesitance) with marijuana and alcohol. Like Anna, I struggled with peer pressure and by that time in my life, my friends had taken on an importance far superseding my own family’s, making it easier to succumb to their pressures (or my own—I just wanted to fit in and be cool) over doing the right thing. As I would come to learn later, a combination of fear, abuse and neglect at home (and I’m not suggesting there was no love, affection or fun—there was) created that hierarchy, as well as fueled self-doubt and tanking esteem. Of course at the time, I had no idea of such things.
The Rape
I loved school for its social aspect, and like most high schools, ours pooled kids from multiple nationalities, races and demographics, providing a large assortment of boys to fall in like with. It’s safe to say my friends and I were boy c-r-a-z-y!
In my sophomore year, I became smitten with a senior, and he with me. We were from vastly different cultures, lifestyles and races, but I didn’t understand why that would matter. After months of him professing his love to me, I not only believed it, I felt the same. Over and over, this boy asked me when he was going to “get some sugar,” and I naively thought he meant a kiss. How wrong I was, which I found out one summer day after he had graduated.
My parents reluctantly let me leave with him to play tennis on this day. I became anxious when he drove away from the area near my home to an unfamiliar park in an unfamiliar part of downtown Oakland. After volleying on the courts for a while, we left to go home, but he stopped at his house first. He nonchalantly invited me in. While everything in me wanted to flee, like a moth to a flame, I followed him inside. My anxiety was so palpable, I sweated as if still on the courts. His father wasn’t home (his parents were divorced, if recollection serves) and as we passed through the living room to the kitchen, the decor alone reminded me of how different we were. Not only that, if forced to find my way out of his neighborhood, I wouldn’t have known which way to go. I was lost and trusting him to take care of me.
He poured me a glass of orange juice and asked me to wait for him—in his bedroom, where he sat me on the bed—for a minute. I was nervous times a million. I tried to relax but couldn’t. In hindsight, I had good reason to be anxious. Not long after, he walked into the room, buck naked, and raped me.
Today, it would be called “date rape,” a term that didn’t exist at the time, because I knew my attacker. But rape is rape, and even more confusing when it is someone you know, and someone for which you have genuine feelings.
I was only fifteen years old and a virgin. It was the single most frightening thing I remember experiencing outside of my household, and I mistakenly thought I’d brought it on myself—because of the romantic feelings I perceived we shared.
